Morning Pages, July 16.

Good morning. I love the treadmill.

I had a few things pop up at me yesterday, mastercard didn't receive my payment from our bill pay, I found out about this too late to attempt another payment and had to do a late one, and then I had to call them with my tail between my legs to explain why. This is the card I've had for sixteen years, sixteen years of on-time payments (down the drain). What a blow. I don't know why it happened, but there was some other issue between Mastercard and our bill pay a few months back where the payment was sent (a paper check), cashed, and deposited, but no one at MC had any record of it ever being paid. It took some doing, but it was straightened out in the end. Now this. It's annoying that this is happening, and I suppose if I really wanted to, I could start a bush fire under someone at our bank and get some answers or action on this matter, and the worst part of all this was actually sitting the day through and decided whether or not I would get into this with someone. I decided it wasn't worth it in the end, and once I did that, I felt much better. I paid it from my own bank's bill pay, which has been effective enough in the past. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice. . . .

Second thing was losing my check card after the Starbucks drive through yesterday afternoon. I also left every single window in the truck open until about midnight, so when I barreled out there to look for it once I remembered, I got in the car and tried to look for it but it was dark and I couldn't see anything. What I DID end up seeing was some huge animal, what kind I didn't find out until this morning (it was an opossum) all laid out on the street. Creepy. But I found the card in a Starbucks pastry bag this morning, so that's all good too.

What does this have to do with writing? Well, clearing my head, for one thing. I can't write anything if my mind wanders, which it's apt to do if random, ridiculous things are bothering me, which is why I try not to let things bother me. . .

But in any event, I am writing. I am doing a short story; it's going well, I think. For the first time since I started this, I had a few moments, maybe a half hour where I was in the zone, as it were, and I stopped hearing the music on my ipod and everything just flowed. I like flow. It's starting to get fun, now. Things have changed a lot from when I started, I've had to take things very slow, obviously, but I really, really like doing it now, which is awesome.

Afternoon Pages, July 11.

anger.

I had a few issues with it this week. I was annoyed by the bike marathon around Lake Harriet that bungled my blade yesterday morning. I had to park at some ridiculous side street because every other entrance to the lake was blocked. I mentally snapped at every biker who refused to ride single file and the old bat who scolded me for trying to cross at the wrong place. And even while this was happening, I was telling myself that it was a minor inconvenience, nothing to freak out over. . . but it still really bugged me.

I focused instead on the creek and the beautiful bridge over it. The water was very sparkly. This helped a lot.

When I get bitchy about little things like these, I usually end up getting over it by focusing on something else, something that gives me strength or euphoria, or something nostalgic. Other times, and this is mostly at night before I go to sleep, I think of people who are less fortunate and send out hopes that they will find their strength, their euphoria, their nostalgia. I know it's not realistic to expect that every single thing will always go my way every time, but I suppose what I'm searching for above all is FLOW, and when it doesn't happen I get annoyed. This is why I keep to my routines. This is why I don't seek out a whole lot of excess interaction from others, if it makes me a hermit or a control freak, so be it, but my flow is very important to me.

I have been caught several times in my life holding onto things that mess up my flow or cause me to mess it up myself. Things that darken my spirit (sorry, cheesy, but it's the best description I can think of) or feel like they are poisoning me somehow. . .
working at Northwest was one thing, trying to convince myself I was not a writer was another. I started to feel this way again at my current (soon to be former) job; I can't hold onto it because it's just not good anymore. It served a purpose, yes, but it's over now. The end. I can't wait for the feeling my mornings will hold each day when I greet them with the wonderfully soothing notion that I will NOT have to go to Starbucks that evening. I can feel my body relaxing already.